Cyanide Dreams
by eliska
Summary: ONESHOT. Some things are so horrible that you can't really tell whether they're real or not, and I… I couldn't tell if this was real or not anymore. Not on my own, at least... Mild Stan x Kyle


"It's just a dream, just a dream… that's all." I told myself for the tenth time since I'd gotten the call, the call that pulled me into a world of never-ending nightmares. Some things are so horrible that you can't really tell whether they're real or not, and I… I couldn't tell if it was real or not anymore. Not on my own, at least, but the notebook in my hands, the words scrawled on and around the edges of the fading yellow paper, reminded me that this was real—I can't escape it.

The train pulled into a stop at South Park Central Station. I got off the train and looked around, and a smile—bitter, but nonetheless a smile—formed on my lips. Nothing had changed, nothing but that one aspect I didn't realize was changeable.

I walked these streets once again and saw many of the same faces I'd come to know over those years of living here. I'm not surprised—it's a small town, anyway, and where could these people go if they leave? The only difference I could notice was their apparent aging, the whiting of hair and multiple lines on their faces. The townsfolk look on silently for several seconds, then quickly walk off to do their daily duties. So it had been a big deal, after all. Officer Barbrady was still on the job, it seemed; I watched him lead the children across the street for school. Did he use to do that for us? I couldn't remember… maybe some things _have_ changed.

A door clanged open to my left. "Stan! Is that you?"

I turned and saw Kenny running towards me, the expression on his face anxious and unbelieving. It's easy to tell why—we haven't seen each other in ages. Oh, we got in touch every now and then with emails and five-minute phone calls, letters that began with "How are you doing", "Everything's fine" and such, but still… it's kind of shocking to see how much difference had occurred during my long periods of absence. His blond hair was messy and unkempt, the dark pouches under his eyes evident… had he been having the same dreams? "Have you heard about…?"

_For what other reason would I come back?_ "Kyle? Yeah, that's why I'm back." Even to myself my words were hollow, flat and distant, a voice that was not my own. Kenny seemed taken aback by my stoicism, but he did not question. _He knows me that well_, I told myself, _even then…_ "What… exactly did happen?"

_I never should have left. Leaving was the easiest thing to do, the easiest way to escape from my sorrows, from my anger… and yet I came back to embrace those things I'd once sought to leave behind._

He told me quietly about the accident. It happened quickly, the people who told him say, and it was over before anyone could do anything about it. "Those damn people… they say he went without pain. I don't believe any of that bullshit, but that's what they say…"

_Totally._

"You've been so close to him," he said, looking away at the buildings behind him. Above us, the sky was a drab gray, with endless fields of clouds spreading out in every direction. I felt myself stiffen. "It's been hard for me too, you know, him being the only one of us who stayed, besides me…"

I was at a loss for words. Was he chastising me for being away for so long, or was it something else? Our eyes met, and the genuine concern in his cerulean orbs told me the truth. Then it hit me that I haven't seen Cartman yet. "Is Cartman here?"

Kenny laughed bitterly. "Of course not. You know how he is… if he heard the news at all; he would be dancing with joy."

Apparently _this_ hadn't changed either. I felt my jaw clench. "That asshole…"

The wind picked up slowly until the colored leaves of autumn were spinning around us in circles. My face to the wind, I looked past him toward the South Park Cemetery, still some distance off.

"_You guys are supposed to be my best friends! But you treated me like… like I was nothing…"_

Were those his exact words? Whatever they were, I could never forget that day he said them, though nearly a decade has passed since that incident. Why, why exactly was I so stupid? I walked away from him so many times… and although he forgave me every time, I would still give anything just to take those steps back.

And now it's too late.

"Let's go." Kenny followed me silently as we walked past houses with fading color and bare trees, heading towards the cemetery. _Don't panic, it's okay, it's okay…_

"Here." We stopped, and I stared at the white marble before me. _I've wanted to see you ever since the last visit… are you mad at me still? I'm sorry for what I've done to you… and I doubt I can be forgiven this time._

The inscription read:

_Kyle Broflovski_

_May 26 1989—November 16 2007_

_No pain, no grief, no anxious fear,_

_Can reach our loved one sleeping here_

_R.I.P_

"Is that true?" I wondered out loud. Kenny looked at me, his face a mask of complicated emotions. We're the only ones here—the service had been held last week. I didn't go; I doubt I could've handled something like that.

_All because you forgot to turn off the gas,_ I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Or was it tears that were threatening to come? _Did you do it on purpose?_

_Of course he didn't,_ another voice in my head scolded. _Why would he do that, with a solid future in front of him, with so much to live for? Why?_

_Because of you, silly._

I thought that if I opened my mouth at that moment the loudest scream ever recorded in history would've occurred.

It wasn't quite so irrational to think of it that way, though. Maybe that's the truth. But what _is_ truth? What if truth is just another lie that people tell us about the original lie? What, then? But still, all of this would just boil down to one, tiny, inconvenient truth—that I was to blame. It wasn't as if I want to deny it. I just couldn't take up the responsibility.

_Does Kenny know?_ I looked at him, but he turned away. _Does he know about that fight, that terrible night, and fate—fate that tore Kyle away from me._

"Kenny…"

"It's not like that." _Like what?_ His voice rose. "Stan, I know what you're thinking; I know about the fight."

"Which is exactly why—"

"It isn't a reason, and you know it. You're just blaming yourself for Kyle's death, and that isn't helping the case any. We're all living under this same shade of gray with you, Stan; you have to know that accidents _do_ happen, to real people, to people we know, to people we love…"

_It was never an accident to begin with, Kenny. It was a punishment._

"You don't believe me, don't you?"

"No." He sighed. "I don't. But that doesn't mean I don't know about accidents, about death that would eventually overcome everyone I love. What I do know is that he died hating me."

"Kyle would never hate you."

"You're wrong about that." _And does that make me right, then?_

"That's what you say." Kenny sat down on the grass, closed his eyes, and felt the breeze ruffle his hair. He reached out and snatched a stray leaf. "Maybe we're both wrong."

I said nothing.

"You loved him." It wasn't a question. Looking at him sideways, I silently tried to reason out an answer that would not touch on that. "Nothing to be ashamed of, Stan, it just means you're different from most people out there. It doesn't make much difference to the people out there—at least, it doesn't affect the people here."

_Out there… and here. To which do I belong?_

"I don't know." It was a lame answer, but I couldn't think of anything to say. "I really don't."

"Well then," Kenny stood up and patted the dust off his jeans, "I'll just leave you here for now, 'kay? Come in when you're ready, but personally… I think you need some time for personal reflection."

Before I could protest he was gone, running down Main Street and waving back at me.

I turned around and did something that surprises me even to this day.

"Kyle?" I said to the tombstone. "This is Stan. Are you there?"

Naturally, nothing happened. _What the hell do I think I am, a fucking shaman?_

"Kyle, I'm sorry."_More than you could ever know._ "I know I've been a total asshole, and I still am. Well, I'm here now, and I've come to tell you that, as unbelievable as it seems, I—I need you right now."

"If words could ever be taken back…"

"_I hate you!" I screamed at him, oblivious to the hurt in his eyes. "I don't want to hear all that shit anymore, Kyle; I know how to take care of myself, thank you very much!"_

"_Stan…" I didn't know anything back then, couldn't see the wounds he was carrying, alone… All I saw was my hurt, my fears, and how he was ruining my life by being against everything I wanted to keep alive. And those things were the exact things which would lead me to death and destruction. In the end, I took in his words—too late._

"_Fuck, I'm leaving—you don't want me here anyways, don't you?"_

"_Don't you know what these are?" He shouted back, his violet eyes angry but smarting. Kyle shook the bags in my face. "This isn't a good idea, Stan…"_

"_I know what's good for me or not, get away from me!"_

"I never hated you; I had no reason to. But you—you have full right to hate me, for all that bullshit I threw at you, for every time I turned my back on you…"

"I just want to ask one thing, Kyle—will you forgive me?" It was an impossible task, I knew, and hopelessly foolish. But I had to do it; it wasn't a question of how possible it was, but how I looked at it. I didn't know that then… all there was in it for me was the feeling of redemption that would—possibly—come with his forgiveness. Would he consent, or would I continue to be chained to my nightmares…? It didn't really matter anymore. All I wanted was to have this whole thing to go back, and because that didn't work, I just wanted to get it over with. But was that all?

I knelt down and looked at the dazzling whiteness, the tears in my eyes flowing freely now, blurring the words from my sight. Maybe somewhere deep down in my heart, I'd known that something like this would happen sooner or later all along. And I hadn't done a thing about my suspicions… but that was the way things work. People just couldn't operate if everything went on being alright; sometimes, a little accident here and there would eventually become something else, something part of the bigger picture. I was old enough to know that anything that seemed right for too long would be wrong before soon. So maybe… I just had to accept it. Would it be that easy? Kenny was right. We used to be so close, so close…

"Are we still?" I looked up, waiting.

The wind was barely a whisper, the lone raven on the bare tree silent, contemplating. I closed my eyes and felt dazed by all this, but a slight burning sensation on my cheek shook me back to consciousness.

All around me, white specks of heaven were falling.

_This was an answer. This had to be._

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice barely audible. But I was sure he heard it.

The surface of the tombstone was polished, smooth… and for one fleeting moment it reflected an image—of me.

I was not alone.


End file.
